Resounding Ruin
by MitchPell
Summary: Five times Clint lost his hearing and one time he gained it.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Resounding Ruin

Author: MitchPell

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with The Avengers, its characters, Marvel comics, Netflix, Disney or the anything else that's related.

Author Notes: This fanfic is meant to take place within the MCU; however, some chapters are based, if just loosely, on comic book canon. According to the Marvel Cinematic Universe Wiki timeline, Clint was already a member of S.H.E.I.L.D by the age of 27. I have tried to adhere to that timeline. Thanks to kiss_me_cassie for all the help and suggestions as my beta reader. This fanfic was originally written for alphaflyer as part of the be_compromised Secret Santa 2017. It has been significantly edited from the original version.

Summary: Five times Clint lost his hearing and one time he gained it.

Email: mitchpell

Chapter 1

Clint stopped just outside the house and looked down at the tears in his mud-stained jeans. He was in trouble. No doubt about it, he was in trouble. He'd been told not to play in his new school clothes. And he hadn't. At least not intentionally. It had just been recess. They'd been playing tag and he'd tripped while running across the playground. But he knew that wouldn't matter to Dad. All Dad would see is the ruined jeans and he'd be in trouble.

"You are so dead," Barney snickered as he pushed past and climbed the porch steps.

"Shut up, Barn!" Clint yelled back.

"Nice comeback, loser. Better hope Dad's not drunk!"

Clint just watched, half furious, half terrified as his older brother disappeared into the house. He briefly considered running, but that would just get him in even more trouble. Besides, he wasn't going to run. He wasn't a coward and only cowards ran. So he steeled himself against the inevitable and climbed the porch steps before entering the house.

Clint entered just as his Dad was coming out of the kitchen, beer dangling from his hand. From the smell of him, it was far from his first. Clint stood frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, as is father scrutinized him.

"What the fuck is that?" His fathered slurred as he pointed his beer can at the mud-torn rip in Clint's jeans. "Didn't I tell you not to ruin those?"

"Yes, sir," Clint muttered, dropping his head to avoid looking at his father.

"What was that? I can't hear you."

"Yes, sir."

"'Yes, sir.' That's what I thought. But just like your bitch of a mother, you don't think you have to listen."

At the mention of his mother, Clint peered past his father to find her cowering on the kitchen floor. Even from where he stood in the foyer, he could see her split lip and the tears streaming down her red swollen face. Barney was also in the kitchen, but on the side farthest from their mother. The two of them locked eyes and for the first time Clint saw fear in his older brother's face.

"Get over here!" his father yelled.

Clint kept his eyes on his brother.

"I said get over here!"

Barney shook his head.

Clint bolted. Out the door, down the porch, and across the yard. He didn't know where he was going to go. He just ran. He heard the screen door slam again and glanced back to find his father chasing after him.

Panicked, Clint pushed himself faster. He didn't look back, he just kept running. Out of the yard and into the prairie. The tall grass ripped across his arms and legs and grabbed at his feet. He stumbled, once, but somehow managed not to fall. He kept going until something large and heavy slammed into him from behind, knocking him to the ground.

His father's weight landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of him and pinning him face first into the ground.

"You don't think you have to listen to me!"

Clint struggled to breathe against his father's crushing weight and the dirt pressed into his face.

"You don't want to listen to me? I'll make it so you can't listen to me."

His father grabbed his hair and turned his head to the side; one large hand pressed hard against his temple. Out of the corner of his eye, Clint could see his father pull something from his breast pocket; sunlight glistened off of it.

Pain exploded in his left ear as his dad forced the object inside. Once, twice, again, and again. Clint screamed; the sound was muffled.

His father grabbed his hair again, turned his head, and shoved his weapon into his other ear, until Clint's muffled screams and sobs fell silent.

Clint woke in the hospital to a painfully silent world, surrounded by the grief stricken faces of his family. The doctor told him, with the help of a notepad, that he'd been deafened by the accident.

Accident. That's what his father had called it. And his mother, too afraid to go against her abusive husband, had backed up the story.

Justice would be his in the end, though. Time gave him back some of his hearing. Enough to classify his loss as severe in his left ear, but only moderate in his right.

And his father...well his father took out both himself and his cowardly mother in an alcohol induced car accident.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"What the fuck did you do?"

Clint jumped at Barney's intrusion.

"Nothing," he muttered as he went back to bandaging the cut along the outside of his right calf.

"Yeah, because that clearly looks like nothing," Barney sneered as he came fully into their tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him. "Don't be a dipshit, Clint, and tell me what happened."

"It's nothing," Clint fired back with more resolve. "Duquesne missed. Or maybe I flinched, I don't know... either way it doesn't matter. It's just a small cut. I'm fine."

"Whatever. Just make sure you keep it clean," Barney said dismissively as he tossed himself down on his cot.

"Yes, Mom," Clint mocked back, but Barney had already tuned him out, opting instead to turn his attention to his walkman.

"Clint! Get up you lazy shit," Barney shouted as he ripped off his younger brother's blankets and threw them on the floor. "The fuck, Clint?" he demanded when he took in the rash of pimples that dotted his brother's right leg, radiating out from the cut he'd gotten almost a week ago.

Clint groaned as he rolled half onto his back and followed Barney's gaze. "They're just pimples," he muttered as he turned his face into his pillow.

"Those are not pimples, Dipshit." Barney reached out and pushed on the tender skin surrounding the cut.

"The fuck, Barn!" Clint all but screamed.

"Clint, your leg is fucking hot as fuck."

"Leave me alone, Barn, I just want to sleep."

"No... Clint…" Barney started concern evident in his voice. "I really think you need to see a doctor."

Clint didn't reply, he just buried his head under his pillow.

"I'm getting Duquesne."

"No!" Clint shouted. "Don't tell Duquesne. He'll kick my ass. Please, Barn."

Barney was taken aback by his brother's desperation. "Fine, I won't tell Duquesne. Relax, Clint." He chewed his lip for a moment, his concern for his brother growing, not just because of the infection in his leg, but also for whatever the hell was going on with Duquesne. "What about Chisholm? Can I get Chisholm?"

Clint just nodded as tears started to roll down his cheeks.

"Alright, I'll be back."

Barney all but ran out of their tent, towards Chisholm's trailer. He knocked twice before simply barging in. "Trickshot!" he called out, relieved when he found the archer sitting at the trailer's table.

"Bernard, what the hell do you think…"

"I think Clint needs a doctor," Barney cut him off. "He's got these nasty pussy bumps all up and down his leg and it's really hot to the touch."

"Hhmm." Chisholm hummed under his breath, projecting indifference. "I worked with Clint yesterday. He looked a little run down, but otherwise fine."

"Please," Barney almost begged. "Please...just come and look at it."

"Fine," Chisholm relented with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let me finish my breakfast."

"Thank you!" Barney left the trailer but didn't immediately go back to their tent. Instead he lingered outside, waiting until Trickshot came out.

Chisholm snickered when he finally did step out. "I told you I'd take a look, kid. You didn't have to wait."

Barney just nodded before heading off in the direction of Clint and his tent. When they got there, Clint was still lying on his cot. He hadn't retrieved his blanket from the floor, so his leg was still out in plain sight.

"That is some nasty shit," Chisholm agreed. He reached out and placed his hand on Clint's leg, just like Barney had done earlier, causing Clint to jerk awake.

"Stop touching it!" he yelled.

Trickshot ignored the outburst. He moved his hand from Clint's leg to the kid's forehead.

"He's got a fever." He turned his attention back to Barney. "Get him to the truck. I'll get the keys from Duquesne."

"Ok," Barney said with relief. Trickshot simply nodded before stepping out of the tent.

"Come on, Clint, get up." Barney called to his brother.

"I told you to fuck off, Barn," Clint grumbled back.

"Chisholm and I are talking you to the hospital. And I'm not taking no for an answer." Barney backed up his words by pulling his brother's arm over his shoulder and hauling him up off the cot. Clint had always been on the scrawny side, so he could easily take his weight.

"I don't need you to fucking carry me," Clint protested as he weakly pushed his brother off of him.

"Fine. Just get your ass to the truck."

"Whatever, Mom," Clint sneered as he limped slowly and unsteadily out of the tent.

"Yeah, real original, Dipshit," Barney shot back as he followed his brother out. He let Clint walk on his own, but he hovered close by just in case.

The trip to the hospital was uneventful. Clint passed out in the truck, sandwiched between Barney and Chisholm, and then again in the ER waiting room. Five hours later, Clint was admitted with a diagnosis of MRSA. He was treated aggressively with Vancomycin. Three days into the treatment, Clint started complaining of a ringing in his ear. Despite the immediate change in medication, the remaining vanco in his system continued to attack his cochlear nerve causing the tinnitus to develop into permanent moderate to severe hearing loss.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Clint silently followed Rodriguez through what remained of the main door of the abandoned building. The two moved quietly through the lower level, sweeping each room until the entire bottom floor was cleared. They then advanced to the stairwell; intel had indicated that it was the only access to the upper floors. Once inside, they chained the door, effectively sealing off the remaining levels. They continued upward in a similar fashion, checking and clearing each floor until they had secured the entire building. They barred the door to the top level as well, creating a second barrier between themselves and any militants that might attempt to gain access to their position. They then chose a room that was missing over a quarter of the exterior wall and that looked out over the northeast corner of the city.

"Let's get that table from the other room."

Clint nodded before following his spotter back out into what was probably once a dining room. The table in question was fairly large, could have probably sat six, but the two were able to maneuver it through the busted out walls with relative ease. They placed it about three feet back from the "window" in their chosen room. Far enough to keep their position hidden but not enough to significantly hamper Clint's lines of sight.

"I'm going to grab one of those chairs."

Clint nodded again as he unslung both his M16A4 and TAC-.338 Lapua. He extended the sniper rifle's bipod and then set both on the table along with his pack. He then climbed onto the table. Lying prone, he rested the bottom of the stock of the .338 on top of his pack, shouldered the weapon, and peered through the scope into the darkened city.

"This gonna do?" Rodriguez asked when he came back. He positioned his chair near the back corner of the table, allowing his slight lines to mirror Clint's, but keeping himself out of the .338's muzzle blast.

"I think we're good," Clint confirmed. "What do you think?"

"Baby, you know when you're good, I'm good."

Clint shook his head as he huffed out a quiet laugh. "Let's radio it in."

Rodriguez pulled the radio out of his pack. "Nest, this is Hawkeye. We are in position, over."

"Copy that, Hawkeye," the radio squawked harshly into the silence. "Troops will be on the ground at 0700. Nest out."

"Alright," Rodriguez all but cooed. "Let's get to work, Baby."

The two of them got down to the business of creating the hide, which predominantly consisted of camouflaging their equipment and ranging key points within their field of view. They, along with one other sniper team, were on overwatch. Positioned on opposite corners of a three block square radius and tasked with protecting ground troops as they searched each building for the weapons and ammunitions intel had suggested was in the area.

Clint and Rodriguez watched the night pass into dawn through the scopes of their equipment: Clint the Nightforce NXS and Rodriguez the M151. The night was relatively uneventful, lacking in suspicious activity. With dawn, however, came their ground troops and with them an influx of Somali activity. They worked seamlessly, eliminating targets as they presented themselves, until all went quiet.

The unnatural quiet pressed on, eating at Clint's nerves, and instilling a sense of unease. "Something's not right," Clint muttered.

"I hear you, Hawkman, way too fucking quiet."

"Radio the Eagles, see if they have any activity."

Rodriguez reached slowly for the radio, which he'd sat on the table next to Clint beneath the cover of the ghillie. "Eagle-Eye, this is Hawkeye. You two seeing anything? We've gone quiet. Over."

"That's a negative, Hawk. Think they're up to something? Over."

"Not sure, but it ain't like these guys to walk away. Over."

"Copy that. Better radio Nest and the guys on the ground. Stay safe. Eagle, out."

While Rodriguez radioed in, Clint continued to scan the streets and surrounding buildings, but they remained eerily empty. "Something's not right," he repeated.

"I know, man. Just keep watching. They'll either show themselves before we get this thing wrapped up or they won't."

They continued their watch for another ten minutes, before Clint finally caught a glimpse of activity. "There. Seven hundred yards out at about 11 o'clock. Fuck, it's a mob. Gotta be at least 100 Somalis. Many of them carrying assault rifles."

"I see them," Rodriguez confirmed just as the radio squawked to life.

"Hawk, this is Eagle. We've got an armed mob about 80 strong heading our way."

"Copy that, Eagle. We've got the same situation here. Shits about to get real."

As Rodriguez switched over from the other sniper team to radio base, Clint continued to track the unfriendlies as they made their way down the main drag towards them.

"RPG," he relayed to his spotter before firing into the crowd. His shot rang true, dropping the combatant carrying the warhead. The shot roused the group into a frenzy, causing them to scatter amongst the mostly dilapidated buildings and streets, though they still continued in their forward advance.

Clint continued to fire at what he deemed to be primary targets, though it became increasingly more difficult to distinguish them from the others, until a bullet whizzed into the room and embedded itself in the wall behind them.

"Enemy sni…" Rodriguez's words were lost as a second round pierced his helmet.

"Shit!" Clint cursed as he watched his friend and spotter slump forward and fall out of his chair. Foregoing any attempts to maintain concealment - what did it matter, they'd been busted anyway - Clint slid off the table. He quickly slung his M16A4 onto his shoulder, grasped Rodriguez by the arms at the elbow, and drug him out the room. Once he had them both clear, he checked for a pulse and was relieved when he found one. Shouldering his weapon, he prepared to head back into their room for his .338 and the radio, but all actions were halted by the shrill scream of an RPG and the subsequent explosion that erupted as it hit their building.

Clint woke three days later in a field hospital on one of the beaches outside of Mogadishu. He was dizzy and disoriented from a concussion and unable to hear anything but the incessant whine of tinnitus.

They told him that the blast had taken Rodriguez, that his friend and spotter had been K.I.A. Clint, on the other hand, would walk away, with nothing more than extensive hearing loss and survivor's guilt.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Natasha glanced up from where she sat on the bed of the safehouse as her partner staggered into the room. He was completely lacking in his usual grace. In fact he looked haggard and rundown; more so than their current mission justified. It put Natasha on edge; she knew something was wrong.

"Clint?"

"I'm fine," he muttered as he dumped his gear unceremoniously on the floor and then disappeared into the bathroom.

She was willing to give him a minute, to take an opportunity to compose himself. But when she heard the sounds of retching, she took it upon herself to intrude. She didn't warn him; she simply walked in and planted herself in the doorway. "Clint?"

"I don't know," he muttered into the toilet bowl. "It started coming on about an hour after Oppenheimer showed up."

Natasha frowned. That had only been three hours ago; a short amount of time for him to have declined so significantly.

"I'm fine," he muttered again, before pushing away from the bowl and flushing.

Natasha watched as Clint struggled to his feet and staggered over to the sink. But instead of turning on the water, perhaps to rinse his mouth out or splash water on his face, he simply stared at the sink, hand hovering halfway towards the faucet.

"Clint?" Natasha asked again, this time letting her concern creep into her voice. "And don't tell me you're fine."

"I'm fine," he muttered like a broken record. "I just need to sleep."

As he went to push past her, she grabbed ahold of his arm. The heat that emanated from his bicep was staggering. "Jesus, you're burning up."

"I'm fine. I just need to sleep."

She held him fast, which was surprisingly easy considering, and pressed a hand to his forehead. "You need to get this fever down."

"Get off me," he practically shouted as he made to forcefully shove her to the side.

Natasha stepped back willingly, rather than provoke him further, and let him pass back into the main room. He walked over to the bed, stared at it in confusion for a moment, and then laid down on the floor. He was still wearing his tack gear and boots.

Once he was down, Natasha sprang into action. She went back into the bathroom and retrieved the extensive first aid kit from under the sink. She then dampened a washcloth with cold water and brought it and the first aid kit back into the main room. She grabbed the phone off the nightstand before returning to her partner's side. He was lying face down, so she shook his shoulder to try and rouse him. "Clint?"

When he didn't stir, she forcefully rolled him onto his back. She pulled a thermometer out of the kit and ran it across his forehead. The digital display read 105.2. When she placed the cold cloth across his forehead, Clint jerked and moaned at the offensive object but otherwise didn't stir. Leaving the cloth pressed to her partner's forehead, she retrieved a vial of ibuprofen from the kit. She read the bottle to determine the correct dosage, filled a syringe, and injected it into Clint's arm. Lastly, she cracked open two cold compresses and placed them on either side of Clint's neck.

Then she picked up the phone and called Coulson.

He answered on the third ring.

"Pickles taste good with peanut butter."

"Only if they're sweet," Natasha replied, confirming the passcode.

"Report, Widow."

"Hawkeye's down, non-mission related illness."

"Symptoms?"

"Fever of 105.2, vomiting, fatigue, confusion, and loss of consciousness." Clint could sleep through a tornado, except when he couldn't. "I've given him I.V. ibuprofen and am using cold compresses to reduce the fever."

"Request?"

"Mission abort and emergency evacuation. Something's not right, Phil."

"I'll see what I can do. Hold tight and await my call."

Natasha remained by Clint's side as she waited to hear from Coulson. In the meantime, she checked his temperature again, but it had dropped only 0.3 degrees. The phone rang about fifteen minutes later, because Coulson was nothing if not efficient.

"I'm sending you a set of coordinates outside the city. A quinjet will meet you there in two hours."

"Confirmed."

Natasha terminated the call. She made quick work of packing both her and Clint's gear. The original mission was meant to require substantial travel, so they had been provided with a vehicle. She took the gear down to it first and then considered the monumental task of getting Clint to car.

Clint wasn't an overly big man, but his weight was still considerable. And she would be hard pressed to avoid attracting attention by dragging him out in a fireman's carry.

"Clint!" she called loudly as she forcefully shook his shoulders. "Time to move."

To her relief, he did stir, but when they locked eyes all she saw was pure confusion. "Clint, we need to move, so you need to get up." His eyes darted around the room, and then suddenly he lunged at her. The attack was slow and weak due to the fever wreaking havoc on his body and his prone position on the floor. But he'd caught her completely off guard, and consequently managed to knock her onto her back.

Natasha made it to her feet much quicker than him and held her hands up in a passive manner. "Clint, it's me. Nat."

He looked around the room and then at her before shaking his head as if to clear his mind. He then repeated the process. Natasha waited, all the while maintaining a non-combative posture. When he came at her again, she was ready to fend him off, blocking his weak attacks, remaining on the defensive.

"Clint! Hawkeye! Stop!"

The use of his code name made him hesitate, but only for a moment. Growing desperate, Natasha was forced to take the offensive. She activated her widow bracelet and bit him. Clint staggered back and then collapsed as the electricity surged through him, causing him to convulse and then pass out.

"Sorry," Natasha told him as she pushed her hair back out of her face, "but you didn't really give me much of a choice."

She knelt beside him once again and began the difficult process of getting his 160 pound body into a fireman's carry. She staggered under the weight, but somehow managed to haul him down to the car and maneuver him into the backseat. She returned to the house once more to sweep it and secure it before climbing into the driver's seat and entering the coordinates into the GPS.

She drove quickly, just above the speed limit, but not much so. They needed to make good time, but they also couldn't afford to draw the attention of civilians or cops. Once out of the city, she opened up and flew over the dirt roads.

The quinjet was waiting when she got there. Coulson had sent May, Ward, and Dr. Woo.

"Fury isn't allowing for a mission abort," May informed her once they'd gotten Clint onboard and into Woo's capable hands. "Coulson sent Ward to be Barton's replacement."

Natasha nodded. She wasn't pleased. There were few Agents she could tolerate working with, mostly because there were few who could keep up. She'd never worked with Ward personally, but Clint had and he hadn't been thrilled about it.

"He's an overly cocky shit," he'd said. "I don't trust him."

Fury was right, though; they may not get another chance at this and she needed a sniper. Ward would have to do.

They made quick work of swapping gear, Clint's for Ward's, and before long they were headed back into the city. It would be another three weeks before the mission would be complete. Clint was still recovering from the bacterial meningitis that almost claimed his life. Woo expected almost a full recovery. A week after he'd regained consciousness, Clint had complained that things sounded muffled. Another three days later, he couldn't hear anything. The inflammation caused by the bacteria had damaged his auditory nerve. Now that the inflammation was down, some of his hearing had returned, but it was unclear how much he would regain.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Clint startled awake. He hadn't meant to doze off, but fuck was he tired. His whole body was just one giant ache.

"Relax," Natasha called faintly from the opposite corner.

Clint looked over in her direction. She looked as bad as he felt. Her left cheek was gashed open and swollen and her lip was split. There was dried blood on her chin.

"How long was I out?"

"Not long," she confirmed. "Maybe twenty minutes."

"Sorry."

"It's ok. At least one of us should get some rest."

Clint nodded before shifting his position on the floor, every muscle in his body protesting the move. "Any new ideas about what we're up against here?"

"I have a few theories, but nothing to back them up."

"Let's hear it."

"Visual or auditory suggestion or an inhaled neurological control agent. We haven't been injected with anything. I haven't noticed any gas being pumped into the room, but it could be subtle. Something odorless and colorless. We'd be none the wiser."

"I haven't noticed any lights or sounds."

"I haven't either, but they could be sub- or ultra-. Something we can't detect, but can still influence our actions."

"Well, since we can't hold our breath, next time they try to make us kill each other, why don't I fashion myself some earplugs and you close your eyes?"

Natasha simply raised her eyebrow in response.

Clint shrugged. "Can't hurt."

Natasha laughed despite herself. Leaning back into the corner she closed her eyes. "Let me know how those ear plugs go."

Clint considered his options before stripping off his tactical vest to get to the undershirt beneath. Using his teeth he tore two pieces of fabric from the hem, wadded them up and stuffed them deep into his ears.

He sat, quietly scanning the room, until he felt a sudden urge to stand at attention. It was like an incessant need that he found almost impossible to resist. Natasha's eyes flew open at about the same time, and she in fact did stand at attention.

Realizing what was happening, Clint quickly followed suit.

A door opened at the front of the room and two men in white lab coats stepped in. Clint kept his eyes trained forward as the men approached until they were close enough to engage. It took very little effort to incapacitate the two men, which he'd anticipated from their attire. What he hadn't anticipated was the attack from Natasha.

They had sparred together many a time, but this was not sparring. This was all out fighting and Clint knew that she'd kill him if she got the opportunity. Between fighting her and the constant urge to quit, to submit, he knew he wouldn't last long. Seizing an opportunity, he used her momentum to fling her across the room. He then quickly snatched up both ID badges from the white coats and bolted for the door. Scanning one of the badges at the door lock, he slipped out and slammed the door behind him.

The order to stop, to comply, became stronger outside the room and he stumbled under the weight of it. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. He needed to block out more of the signal.

Clint quickly scanned the hallway. It was currently vacant, but he knew that wasn't going to last. He immediately started down the hallway to the left. When they'd first breached the facility, they'd been almost immediately taken over, and before they could even register what was truly going on, they'd been made to engage each other. They brawled until they were bloodied and broken. At their breaking point, they'd been made to stop, stand at attention, and then march to the detainment room. Even though they were being controlled, they'd been conscious of everything. Consequently, Clint knew a minimal layout of the facility including where they'd been disarmed.

As he continued to move quickly yet cautiously down the hallway, Clint could feel his resolve starting to slip. The need to give in to the suggestion made him hesitate; twice he turned around and almost went back. Determined, he shoved the pieces of cloth deeper into his ears, which helped, but only minimally. They were either increasing the strength of their suggestion, or the theory about it being auditory was wrong. He hoped it was the former; otherwise, he didn't see a way out of this.

The third time he turned, there were two militants outside a now opened containment room. He watched as Natasha emerged. She looked down the hall, locked eyes with him, and then charged.

"Shit," Clint muttered. It was foolish to turn your back on the Black Widow, but he couldn't afford to get into another skirmish. So he acted the fool and took off down the hall. He was close to the room where they'd abandoned their weaponry; he just hoped that nothing had been moved.

Clint slammed into the door in question as he turned the knob, but it was locked. He fumbled the keycard when he attempted to unlock it, which gave Natasha enough time to close the distance. Forced to engage, Clint struggled to remain on the defensive, but the urge to fight, the urge to retaliate was almost overwhelming. Somehow through the maylay, Clint managed to use the second keycard to unlock the door and muscle it open. He landed a kick to Natasha's midsection, causing her to stagger back. Seizing the opportunity, he slipped into the room and closed the door.

Given that he'd left the fumbled keycard outside, Clint knew he didn't have much time. He scanned the room quickly. His bow and Natasha's pistols were laid out on one side of a table, her magazines, her widow's bite and his quiver on the other. He moved quickly, snatching up first his bow and then quiver just as Natasha opened the door. As she made her approach, Clint keyed the control on the grip of his bow, and drew the trick arrow from the quiver. There wasn't time to nock the arrow, let alone draw or fire, before she was on him again. Clint knew, with her guns within easy reach, he was dead if he didn't act fast. He managed to shove her back, to put some semblance of space between them, which bought him just enough time to activate the sonic tip.

The sound was deafening, but that of course, was the point. When Natasha looked at him again, there was clarity in her eyes. Words could not be spoken, but they didn't need to be. They moved in unison, gearing up and then stepping out into the hallway. Strike Team Delta cleared the compound in record time, retrieved the package they originally came for, plus a few extras.

Natasha would recover her hearing. Clint would not.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Clint tried not to fidget; it wasn't normally in his nature to fidget. It didn't fit into his job description; neither past, present, nor future. In his line of work, fidgeting could get you killed. So could nervousness. He wasn't the nervous type. But this...this made him nervous. This made him fidget.

He wasn't alone in the exam room. Coulson was waiting with him. Having his SO in the room made him uncomfortable, but he hadn't been able to decline. The audiologist had all but insisted that he have someone with him, and since Coulson was his primary contact at SHIELD, it made him the obvious choice.

Clint's discomfort didn't stem from a dislike of Coulson; all and all he generally liked his SO. He'd only been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for a little over two months. Most of that time had been spent in medical, being evaluated physically and mentally, before the implant surgery. Then there had been the month long recovery. Consequently, he hadn't known Coulson for very long. And this...this was...sensitive. He'd been warned that it could be outright emotionally overwhelming. It was awkward to have a border line stranger witness such an event.

 _You ready?_ The audiologist signed.

Clint nodded. _Let's do this_ , he signed back.

She smiled before stepping out of view to attach the external receiver. He still found it unsettling to have them poking and prodding around and essentially inside his head.

When she finished, she stepped back into his line of sight and sat down at her desk. _Here we go_ , she signed once more before activating the receivers.

"Clint?" She asked.

Clint flinched as what he could only assume was sound filled the room. He smiled as tears of disbelief began to flow.


End file.
